THE DECISION
Venatora watched as Palsonia—flanked by two powerful Zabanya guardswomen—cautiously approached the airlock that led to the rebel armory.
On the floor were the corpses of two sentries. They had once been beautiful women, with narrow waists and rippling biceps—the Himmenops were known for their muscular beauty—but now the face of one had been blown away, while a large bloody chest wound marred the body of the other.
Both women sported the Sharkwire red and gold bicep tattoos that marked them as followers of Princess Anthofelia.
Venatora felt a catch in her throat. Those women were her subjects, damn it. Their deaths were needless. Pointless.
When they’d first crept into the chamber that led to the armory Venatora’s spies had ferreted out, she’d tried to confront them directly.
Over the objections of Mara and Palsonia, she’d stepped into the chamber, calling: “Sisters. Sisters.”
With cries of alarm the women had spun around, battlerifles coming up.
Venatora raised a calming hand, palm turned out in peace.
“No cause for alarm, my sisters,” she said. “It is I, Venatora. Your Queen.”
At the same time, she practically glowed with pheromonal power. Her own guardswomen sighed in ecstasy.
But the two sentries seemed unmoved. Through disbelieving eyes, Venatora saw them press their battlerifles against their shoulders. Fingers curling around triggers.
“Please, sisters,” Venatora said. “Listen to your Queen, who loves you.”
It was no use. The women were unmoved. And if Marta hadn’t broken free of Venatora’s spell the women would have opened fire and Venatora would now be a corpse like the two she was staring at now.
What was wrong? What had Anthofelia done to them? Or, more likely, her mentor Father Huber had concocted some kind of antidote to Venatora’s pheromonal powers. Father Raggio had warned her of that possibility.
There was a faint hiss and a small, batlike drone sailed by, drawing her attention back to the present.
She glanced over at Marta, who was in the center of the room skillfully operating the controls of her mini-fleet of drones, which swooped around the vaulted chamber, hunting down the pinprick-size monitors that guarded the entrance of the armory.
Some were imbedded in the ceiling, others pebbled the twin columns that supported the vaulted roof.
When they found them, little spears of hot red laser beams shot out from the drones, frying the monitors.
At the armory door, Palsonia pressed a blastpak against the locking mechanism. She signaled the guardswomen and the three backpedaled until they were twenty meters away. Then took refuge behind two enormous pillars.
Palsonia glanced over at Venatora, who waited with a dozen of her best guardswomen, all of them bristling with AM2 battlerifles.
Venatora gave a thumbs up, then she and her team ducked behind an armored rhino-sized gravsled that sported a heavy ram that had been welded to its nose.
Palsonia pressed a button and at the airlock there was a blinding flash of white heat and the door sagged in on itself, molten metal running across the deck, steaming and crackling.
Venatora heard cries of alarm, then the gravsled lumbered into life, charging across the deck, with Venatora and her assault team sprinting along behind it.
The gravsled bumped over the corpses, then rammed through the remains of the airlock and then they were all through, shouting and shooting, while angry spears of rebel laser fire seared the air.
Caught up in the first adrenaline rush of battle, Venatora was at first blinded by chaos. AM2 rounds mingled with laser fire. Women were shouting furiously, although some screamed in pain or gasped in surprise as their lives were torn from them.
Then the firing stopped and Venatora found herself looking at a half-a-dozen corpses on the floor. Anthofelia rebels all—witness the gold and blood red Sharkwire tattoos encircling their right biceps.
Next to her, she heard Marta say, “Your Highness? Are you okay?”
And she came back to life, jolting up straight and tall.
“Of course I’m okay,” she snapped.
She scanned her surroundings. Saw the scores of weapons—ranging from sidearms and AM2 battlerifles, to Bester grenades and other explosives—arrayed along the walls and stacked in the corners.
To Marta: “Casualties?”
“We were lucky,” Marta said “We caught them by surprise. None dead on our side and only a small laser burn on Corporal Jenna’s thigh.”
“The rebels?” Venatora’s voice was taut.
Marta sighed. “Six dead. One badly wounded.”
Venatora steeled herself. “Prognosis?”
“No hope, Your Highness. She’ll be dead in an hour.”
“Very well,” Venatora said. “Call in the others to gather up the arms and transport them back to base.”
“Yes ma’am.” A pause, then: “And the dead rebels?”
An almost unreasoning anger overtook Venatora. How dare they? How dare they?
“Burn them,” Venatora said. “But kill the wounded one first and burn her as well.”
* * * *
Late that night, in the domed fortress that was Venatora’s command center, she sat with Clew, staring out at the scattered stars. Wondering if perhaps her time really was over.
It would almost be a great relief to turn her back on it all and relinquish the whole kingdom of the Himmenops over to Anthofelia. Let her have it. Let her deal with all those ungrateful subjects that Venatora had sacrificed so much for.
She could say hang it all. Shed all her troubles and go off alone on some grand adventure. She could take Marta with her for company. But not Palsonia. She was too—well, too much. Bulled through everything. Marta was all calmness and love.
Sten’s face floated up. Well, why not? She could stop by on her way out the Possnet Sector and see if Sten wanted to come along.
If not—Venatora shrugged. She didn’t need Sten. Or Marta. Hells, she didn’t need anyone. They didn’t call her queen for nothing. When she spoke, beings jumped to do her bidding.
A sudden stubborn feeling overtook her. She grabbed the dusty spirits bottle and filled her glass to the brim.
Turned to Clew, who was looking at her quizzically.
“I’m guessing that sort of a decision has been reached,” she said.
“Indeed it has,” Venatora said, as all the old confidence came flooding back.
Clot Skink! Clot all her brother and sister pirates! And clot the damned Tahn as well. Fehrle had been ignoring all her attempts at communication, so she had no doubt which side he was backing.
The more she thought on it, the more Clew’s plan made sense. With her own farm planet that produced enough to feed all her people, Venatora would be invulnerable to all outside threats and influences.
She raised her glass to Clew and downed the fiery contents in one long, searing swallow. Venatora slammed the glass down and came to her feet.
“Let’s steal a planet,” she said.